


A Late Summer's Day in Azkaban

by Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto



Series: The Unnamed Road [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Memoirs, Sirius Black POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto/pseuds/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Enclosed you’ll find the piece that you, Albus, asked me to write for you concerning the twelve years that I spent as a prisoner on the Island of Azkaban..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Late Summer's Day in Azkaban

Date Unknown.  
Sometime in Winter,   
My Godson Harry’s Fourth Year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Written from a cave near the Village of Hogsmeade

Dear Albus, Remus and Especially Harry,

Enclosed you’ll find the piece that you, Albus, asked me to write for you concerning the twelve years that I spent as a prisoner on the Island of Azkaban. About what it was like to live there. About the dementors that guard the place. 

I don’t know whether my words will paint the real picture. Time was passed quite strangely there. Less so in body than mind. Often , even now, Azkaban feels as close as my next heartbeat or as the air around me. Though I’m no longer a captive behind its stone wall or prison bars, neither am I truly a free man. I’m still considered to be a criminal at large. One who is still being hunted from one end of the country to the other. 

The sight of cell doors swinging wide to gather me back in greets me in my dreams. At first waking I still lie motionless in the grey light of this cave, listening for the swish of dementors’ robes, waiting for the chill that announces their approach. 

To revisit that place is like walking a fine line between the past and present that I sometimes struggle to recognize.

I have set this quill to parchment for one reason. Definitely not to relive those days, but because I want to see changes made to that place. Mainly, to see the dementors that guard that island gone. Albus, if anyone can get these words out in print somewhere they can make a difference- the Daily Prophet maybe- it’s you, because of your influence as the Headmaster of Hogwarts School. I don’t know how much weight the tale of a convicted murderer will carry, but if there’s a chance to make the Ministry of Magic get rid of those foul creatures, it’s worth some discomfort on my part. 

Though it was more than a year now since I left that place, it chills me to my bones, thinking about dementors for very long. Words like terrifying or repulsive don’t begin to describe the effect they have on those forced to be near them. I’m not certain anybody should have to endure that. 

Though the words come, painful and reluctant, I must say this probably holds true, even for Peter Pettigrew. I don’t know if it’s in me to forgive his betrayal of the Order of the Phoenix, and even less so that of my dearest friends, Harry’s parents, James and Lily Potter. But I don’t know if anyone deserves to be imprisoned by beings that can suck away any memory of happiness. 

Harry, I know you’re concerned for me, writing this as I live here in isolation. And granted, what I write about Azkaban is not a pleasant story to tell. You have a good, gentle heart, like your Mum’s. Very kind. But you’re possessed of a spirit as brave as your Dad’s. So, you’ll understand, difficult or not, why I feel it is important to share this. 

Now that I’m away from Azkaban and have my mind and memories again, I know facing down- even in our own minds- the things that unsettle us most, is a way of gaining strength. Sharing them with people close to us turns personal strength to unity. And with Voldemort’s servant Peter, back at his side and trouble stirring in the wind, maybe unity’s what will help us all face the rough days that lie ahead for all of us in the Wizarding world. 

I’ve decided to write about only one very significant day. It was a bit over a year ago now. Just a few weeks after you finished your second year at Hogwarts, Harry. Though it was only one of hundreds and hundreds of days, it will, I hope give a fair idea of how time was passed there and what the effect was of being near the dementors. 

More important, I believe the events of that evening show there are powers which are far greater than theirs.

Before you read on from here, let me say to you all that the care and friendship you have shown me since I took up residence here in hiding with my fine friend and fellow fugitive, Buckbeak, is far, far stronger than Azkaban or its dementors. 

Thanks for that and for all the food, books, owl-post news, quills, ink, parchment, envelopes and even for the bad jokes that you have shared with me. I hope I can do the same for all of you sometime. Especially with the jokes.

* * * * * 

 

A LATE SUMMER’S DAY IN AZKABAN

Dawn. 

Of its free will, light slips through the bars of my window and lets itself be imprisoned a while to keep me company. This is the best time of day. I believe the coming light weakens the power of the dementors. They seem further away as sunrise comes.

This is the time I can close my eyes and allow myself the pleasure of feeling morning’s first warmth on my face. Sometimes I let myself remember the faces of people I’ve known and cared about in my life. There is Remus Lupin, who I met on the train to school when I was eleven years old. I hope he’s never given up on his old friend Sirius or grown to believe that he became a traitor. And then there are my other dearest friends, James and Lily Potter, who are gone now because of my bad judgement. 

But in the early hour I can look back beyond my time of deepest regret and see them as they were during our years at Hogwarts School. I nod in amusement, thinking of James bent over the parchment of the Marauder’s Map, checking passages that might lead us out of school and into mischief on its grounds. Sometimes the memory of Lily brings the odd feeling smile to my face. Especially when I think of how she both delighted dear old James and taught him how to stammer and blush his last three years of school. What a relief for the poor old bloke when she later became his wife. I remember their little son Harry, who I hope has been kept safe with his Muggle relatives. Of course he’s not little any more. He’s off to school himself, studying to be a Wizard. I wonder if he’s grown to look as much like James as we thought he would when he was small. Then there’s Professor Dumbledore who was once my Headmaster. I got to know him best because of all the times I was sent to visit his office. Later, when Voldemort tried to come to power, I think Dumbledore had some reservations about whether I should be Lily’s and James’s Secret Keeper… 

At this time of day, I can remember the fun I had at school. I can recall how, later, I enjoyed levitating all the odd bits of second hand furniture I’d bought for my first flat up a long winding flight of stairs and flying it back and forth across the rooms until I knew where I wanted it to settle itself. Then there was my magical motorbike and how much I loved riding it on starry nights with the wind whipping in my hair.

I don’t remember them long- they’re too precious. If the dementors sensed my bittersweet joy in these memories, they’d take them from me. After I push them from my mind, I make myself turn from the window so they won’t learn how much I love the feel of the sun on my face. They might drain that from me too. Or move me to a cell with a north facing window. 

When the sun-stream has escaped back out into the world, I walk back and forth the length of my cell, which is like a deep stone box with a barred doorway at one side and a barred window on the other. I think about breakfast, which is probably porridge- lumpy and often more than a bit cold. They’d never have to drain away my emotions about that slop. 

Morning

The sun has long since passed my window now. Sometimes the sky is blue, sometimes grey. Little light comes through the bars this time of day, and I don’t think much about the sky. I don’t think much about anything. The dementors who guard this place brush past my door in their rustling robes and it becomes almost too much work to think at all beyond being aware of the chill of their presence and the dimness of my surroundings. 

As they move along the central passage, past other cells and I feel their influence weaken, I sometimes wish for something to do, a book to read or some small task to perform. But often it seems like I have too little energy to do more than wish. 

Usually it’s easier to rest quiet on my cot. Down the corridors I hear the echoing cries of other inmates as our hooded guards pass their cells. When I first came here, I thought I’d like to help the other prisoners in some way. It hardly mattered whether they’d been among Voldemort’s Death-Eaters. Their aching despair seemed beyond anything a person should have to endure. But soon there came all the heavy grey apathy. Even without that to move through in order to help, I realized I didn’t know how. Didn’t know then, don’t know now. 

These days it’s not clear how long ago I came here. I only know I was brought by the Ministry of Magic’s law enforcement officers without having a trial. I used to get angry about that, about not having a chance to be heard. I wanted to shout my innocence to the sun and to the stars along with a thousand useless apologies. I didn’t mean to cause the deaths of James and Lily. They were my friends, my dearest friends. If I suspected Peter would betray them to Lord Voldemort, I never would’ve argued to have him be their Secret Keeper instead of me. I thought he was my friend and theirs. There are people who should know that. 

At other times I think it doesn’t matter whether I meant it to happen or not. It happened. James and Lily are dead. They are dead and Voldemort is defeated. Harry is an orphan. But Dumbledore will make certain he is safe. 

I wonder how old he is now. Old enough for Hogwarts, I’m sure. Second or Third Year   
maybe. Not the tiny bundle he was when Hagrid carried him away on my motorbike. 

As important as I think it could be having the truth known about Peter betraying James and Lily’s whereabouts to Voldemort, almost as often I think I bear as much responsibility for what happened that night as he did. I was, after all, the one who forgot what a spineless little rat Peter could be. Always wanted to be on the strongest side. Even though I counted him among my friends, I’d seen that weakness in him off and on through the years. I should have remembered it. 

Anyway, proving my innocence would be hard. I no longer have the will, the forcefulness that I believe were mine before I came here. The dementors sap my energy and strength.

The fact that I am innocent of the murders I was sent here for does not give me comfort. That’s probably why the dementors don’t take that knowledge from me. They cannot force me to live the murders over and over because I wasn’t there to see them happen. This seems to leave me surprisingly rational in many ways. I am often lethargic, but do not fall into the bouts of crying and screaming I hear echoing down the long stone hallways from whichever direction the dementors are passing.

Afternoon

Lunch. Tasteless. Little appetite. Maybe the food is good, nutritious. Maybe not. I don’t know. Don’t care. Mostly it has no flavor. We don’t get much fruit. At least I don’t remember it. It would have flavor. There were bananas once- Christmas maybe? Or was it during a Ministry inspection? Those two events are almost like the same thing. 

Afternoon passes like morning but it is harder. Mainly because I am aware that the night is growing ever closer. This place is coldest here in the dark hours and it is harder to keep my thoughts neutral at night. I reassure myself with the knowledge that, if the despair presses too tight around me, I do have a refuge that I can retreat to. Sometimes in the solitude of my cell, I use the only Magic I have left anymore. Nobody here knows I am an animagus who can transform into a dog. That keeps my thoughts more focused on the moment. I can immerse myself in the feel of the stone floor beneath my pads, the scent of the salt sea through my windows. These things are neither a joy nor a sorrow, they are simply the contents of the moment and so they are relatively safe. 

The dementors seem to have difficulty reading dog thoughts. 

That makes it tempting to think about transforming during daylight hours. But it is too risky. Sometimes there are visitors to the island then. Mostly they are members of the Ministry Department of Law Enforcement, bringing new prisoners or, less often, taking away those inmates who have completed their sentences. If anyone were to spot me in dog form, I could be placed under an enchantment that would prevent the change. 

So, in the sunless afternoon hours, I lie on my cot or hide beyond the angle of my barred door and watch the dementors pass. They are so tall as they sweep by in their grey-black robes with the hoods that hide their faces. How tall? I don’t know. Tall enough to make us all feel small and vulnerable. Even the people that came here because they were Voldemort’s servants have fear in their voices when the dementors pass.

Evening

Supper. Tasteless. Probably nutritious. The Ministry of Magic sends Medi-Wizards to check things like that. Wouldn’t want us getting malnutrition while we’re being driven mad. 

Don’t they see us wasting away? Or realize it takes more than food to nourish a person? We need our dreams to warm us; we need our hopes to shelter us against our fears. We need rest to strengthen us, not nights spent tangled in the webs of all our worst dreams. 

Perhaps I’ll say something about that to one of the inspectors next time they come. Or maybe not. After all, I’m Sirius Black. Even within these walls, I know how my name has come to be hated and feared in the world beyond this island. 

The dementors let me keep that knowledge too. 

No Minister of Magic would improve conditions here on my recommendation. Or want to hear from me how many of the people here die of despair and loss of hope. Because of that, it seems ironic that I feel in better condition to express these thoughts coherently than so many of the others. Not that I feel all that coherent most of the time. Coherence takes focus and energy. Maybe even a hope of being understood.

Still, the inspection team comes down the echoing hall one evening near the end of summer. Not Medi-Wizards this time. It’s Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, looking through the bars. He’s older and fatter than when I last saw him. Ten, twelve years older anyway. If that’s true, my Godson is old enough for Hogwarts by now. 

Fudge looks so real! I set my half finished tray on my cot, rise and move to the front of my cell. There are hungers that run deeper here than for food. He’s wearing a bright green bowler hat above his pinstriped cloak. Such a vibrant color! How many years since I saw something so vivid? Five, six maybe? A Medi-Wizard came once, dressed in periwinkle blue… Unless that was a dream the dementors never captured and tied up in nightmares. Real or not, that’s one of those memories I don’t risk looking at too often. 

But it is safe enough right now, to look at Fudge’s beautiful lime green bowler. The dementors retreat to their own part of this place during inspections. Their influence is still here, but weaker. I can stand here and love that color. I can gaze and gaze at it. That hat makes Cornelius Fudge appear more real than anybody I’ve seen in ages. More alive. For a moment, the life glowing around him seems to flood through my chest. I step to the bars. I want to tell Fudge all the thoughts I’ve had. Say the dementors are starving the prisoners here of the good, healing dreams that everyone deserves to have in order to brighten and color their world. 

I don’t have the strength. I can only stare at him. 

His eyes become riveted on mine. He steps closer to the bars. “What do you want, Black?” he asks, swallowing hard, as if, even from here, I either frighten or revolt him.

I want to say so much, but my throat locks. I think of the shining bright world he has come from, one I almost forget exists for days or weeks at a time. A world I wish I could touch, even for a moment. I gesture at the newspaper he is holding under his arm. “May I have your paper?”

My request must seem odd. He looks at me like I’m mad. Probably believes I am. So many of us are. Maybe he hasn’t heard me. Speech is so rare for me now; my voice has grown almost as dim as a whisper. Or maybe, because of who I am, he will not give it to me.   
I don’t care all that much, don’t know why I asked him. Does he find it a cold blooded thing for a murderer to ask, instead of pleading forgiveness for the deeds that brought me here? 

But after a moment, he shrugs, then thrusts it through the bars to me. 

I clutch it within trembling fingers, smell the ink, note the grainy texture of it, feel its shifting weight as it falls open between my hands.

There, on the front page, staring up at me from where he sits on the shoulder of a grinning boy is a rat. A very familiar rat! I’d know that pointy-nosed face anywhere. It’s my old school-mate and fellow animagus, Peter Pettigrew in his animal form! My one-time friend. The traitor who handed James and Lily over to Voldemort! 

As I retreat toward the back of my cell to read the article, I realize that for the first time in years there is a reason to find strength. Because that boy, Ron Weasley his name is, who has Peter perching jauntily there on his shoulder is where my Godson is. Like Harry- 

He is at Hogwarts!

* * * * *

The three of you know what happened next, as do Ron and Hermione. How the resolve that woke in me when I knew Peter was at Hogwarts, led me to break free. How, clever little rat that he is, Peter escaped justice and set out to find Voldemort. And how, through your efforts, I’ve been able to live here in hiding with my fine hippogriff friend, Buckbeak these past months. Feel free to share this writing with them if you like. 

Professor Dumbledore, I hope this is useful in your article about the need for reforms at Azkaban. I put things down as clear and honest as I remember them, though I’m neither a scholar nor a writer. 

But, away from that desolate place at last, one thing I am becoming again is a dreamer. Someday I see myself with another motorbike, flying through storm-clouds and lightning like I used to do. And in that dream, Harry, I want to take you along for the ride!

With deepest gratitude,  
Sirius


End file.
